


Devil in Disguise

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Greaserlock, M/M, Teenlock, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1958 when Jim Moriarty immigrates to America. With his dark eyes, baggy sweaters, and Dublin brogue, it isn’t long before he catches the attention of greaser gang leader Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil in Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay, I started this as a "cute, short little oneshot" to feed my craving for Greaserlock Mormor, and it just kept growing and growing until it turned into this. A week of steady (almost obsessive) writing and researching went into this. It's been fun, and rather exhausting, and I am delighted to have finally reached the end. 
> 
> Title (and a few lines) taken from Elvis Presley's 'Devil in Disguise', which wasn't released until 1963, and therefore later than our timeline (this takes place during 1958), but Elvis was such an iconic figure of the era, and the song is so perfect for Jim, I decided to include it anyway. 
> 
> You will find all other songs mentioned, and some others I listened to while writing, in this playlist: http://8tracks.com/starsandgutter/devil-in-disguise-a-mormor-greaser-mix
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_You look like an angel._

*

The first time one of them tries to hurt him, Jim breaks their nose.

It is Victor. Vic T, all easy confidence in himself, brimming with it, so sure and solid that the new boy with the dark eyes and funny accent poses no threat to him. He jokes about it beforehand. Tells the boys to watch as he gives the new kid a knuckle sandwich, shows him who's who around here, who's in charge, who's the top dog.

“Not you, then,” Sebastian comments, earning a snicker from Greg at Vic's expense.

Vic flips him off and shrugs away the laughter as if it doesn't bother him. One quick slide of comb through hair thick with gel, and he's standing straight shouldered and proud once again. He knows better than to actively challenge Sebastian, but this will be his own small victory, and that is enough. Sebastian gives him a grin that is overflowing with boyish charm and the tension is gone.

“Aren't you just a big tickle, Seb? Bundle of laughs, you.”

“Right, you ever gonna do this or are you just all talk?”

Victor knows that to respond to that will only give weight to Sebastian's words. He laughs, shakes his head, and turns. The kid's a scrawny, pale little thing. He won't take much more than a bit of batting about. Easy, really. Vic cracks his knuckles as he approaches him.

Jim's leaning against a wall, his bag at his feet. He's found a nice, quiet spot away from the lunch crowds where he can read in peace. The book is held loosely between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes glide along the words with rapid intensity, brow furrowed in concentration. He does not glance up at the sound. He does not acknowledge Vic at all until the boy stands in front of him, blocking the light. Even then, Jim only glances over his book.

“Can I help ya?” The Irish lilt that flavours his words feels even more pronounced to him now that he is surrounded by Yanks. He equal parts cherishes and loathes it. At home it was common. It spoke of his working class background; of council estates littered with broken glass, and people in grey boxes whose lives were slipping like grain between their fingers. Here, it is not common, it is special, and it underlines and highlights that he is different. That he is separate from the rest of them. For this reason, Jim both cherishes and loathes it. Both celebrates and despises himself.

Within seconds of this question, the book is gone from his hand, knocked loose by the force of which he is pushed back against the wall. His head bangs painfully against brick and his teeth slam together, not quite hard enough to bleed. He is punched in the stomach just as he's beginning to realise what's happening, and like lightning, without thought, his open palm slams up with as much force as he can manage. He hears the crack of bone. He feels a rush of blood, moving along his palm and down over his wrist. Then the pressure is gone as Vic stumbles back, hand to his nose, swearing muffled against his own skin.

Jim's expression doesn't change. He crouches down, eyes still trained on Victor in case he attempts another attack, and lifts his book. He catches the strap of his bag as he rises again, and loops it over his shoulder. Without a word, he slips around the bleeding boy and calmly walks away.

Serves him right.

Greg immediately moves forward to Victor's aid. Sebastian follows, slower, eyes following Jim until he turns the corner and disappears.

*

They tell no one.

Sherlock works it out quite quickly, laughs at Vic and his wounded pride. Victor threatens that if it goes beyond the four of them he won't be the only one with a broken nose, and while they don't quite buy into the threat, they've no intention of spreading his misery. It's only funny within their group. Outsiders will taint it. They are allowed to laugh at each other, but no one is allowed to laugh at them.

Sherlock has the potential to be the leader of the group. He is the natural for the role. He knows everything, somehow, can tell a life story in a few quick glances. He can identify weak spots, can gather information without the effort of threats, and his confidence and cockiness make him a reluctant follower.

However, Sherlock Holmes is not one of those people who always lives up to potential. He gets bored. He gets restless. He gets tired of routine and goes seeking distraction. There are times they don't see him for weeks, and when he shows up again he'll be glassy eyed, jaw moving in circles without actually forming words. Greg will swear and roughly drag him away and when they see him again, he will seem paler and thinner than usual, with tousled hair, and bloodshot eyes underlined with dark smudges.

Sebastian, however, Sebastian is driven by ambition, even if he keeps it to himself. He is driven by the desire to prove himself. To his father, to his friends, to the whole world. Brought up with military discipline, he has learned to always strive for the best. It was easy for him to slip into Sherlock's place in his absence, to subtly guide the rest into some form of order. Like instinct, they know not to question Sebastian, they know that even while bickering, there is a metaphorical line that you simply do not push Basher Moran over.

So when he comes across Greg and Victor planning ways to corner Jim, to extract revenge, to make him regret ever crossing their group, he puts his foot down with such stubborn decisiveness that they do not try to argue.

*

They leave Jim alone after that, but Sebastian keeps an eye on the kid.

Jim is strange, because Sebastian has learned to judge people on appearance.

It's usually so simple and straightforward. He can tell the squares from the hepsters, can tell who will be easy to beat in a fight and who will be the greatest challenge at the drag races. He knows which girls will put out for him, and which girls he will have to have patience with, will have to make empty promises to, before he can sweet talk them out of their high waisted, satin panties. He knows who to threaten to do his homework, who to bribe and blackmail for information, and he knows who is fashionable to be seen with. He can tell these things from the way they dress, the way they move, the way they do their hair.

But Jim, Jim is different. The most notable thing about Jim is how small he is, particularly for a boy of their age. He is small and pale, a scrawny little thing, always drowning in jumpers, his shirts loose around the neck. His clothes are old and worn, are baggy on his slim frame, but impeccably neat. He does not style his hair. Sometimes he runs a hand through it to push it back from his eyes, but he doesn't use product, and with time it inevitably falls forward again. At first glance he looks soft, sweet, breakable. He looks like he should be something incredibly fragile, but he is not.

At times he moves as if he owns the world. It's an innate movement that bleeds confidence, demands respect and causes people to move from his path, more subtle that Sebastian's own practised swagger. His eyes are wide and dark, and there is something about them that reminds Sebastian of an animal, something cold and secret, something hungry.

The more Sebastian casts an eyeball at him, the more he sees; the more he wants to see.

*

Sebastian has a 1948 Ford Super Deluxe Convertible in blue, and she is his baby, second only to his L.E. Velocette motorcycle. The motorcycle is favoured for speed and solitude, but his car comes a very close second. It was a second-hand, run down, beat up excuse for a ride when his father had first gifted him with the keys on his birthday, but he has worked on it with commitment and a fierce dedication he so rarely displays, and it has become his greatest pride.

It is a Wednesday evening, while he is driving his baby home in the rain, that he first speaks to Jim Moriarty.

Most people that Sebastian passes have their heads ducked against the rain, their bodies curled in defensively as they stride quickly towards cover. He notices Jim because Jim is the opposite. Jim walks with his head tipped up to the sky. He pads along at a pleasant pace, taking no notice of the puddles on the sidewalk. Sebastian is so captivated by the sight he almost crosses to the wrong side of the road.

Quickly pulling his steering wheel straight again, he slows and pulls up alongside the curb, rolling his window down.

“Hey,” says Sebastian, with all the conviction of someone who believes that is a truly sensational opening line.

Jim ignores him.

Sebastian Moran is not used to being ignored.

“Hey, Moriarty.”

This gets him a flick of the eyes sideways. It's better than nothing, and Sebastian takes it as encouragement, even when Jim's eyes slide back to the sidewalk in front of him.

“You want a ride?”

At this, Jim abruptly stops. Sebastian presses down on the brake pedal and stills beside him, as Jim turns to face the car. His hair is damp, and wet strands of it stick to his forehead. Little beads of water run down over the pale skin of his face, stick to his dark, surprisingly feminine eyelashes. His mouth is a thin line of disapproval.

“And why, exactly, would I want a ride?”

The words are bitten out, heavily laced with disdain, but Sebastian finds it hard to take offence when they are wrapped in such a charming accent. He raises an eyebrow and glances to the sky.

“'Cause it's rainin',” he says, as if Jim may not have noticed this despite the fact it's rather obvious, despite the fact it's soaking through his clothes even as they speak.

He does not realise that in Ireland it rains through half the summer, and that enduring it is an inevitability rather than a misfortune. He does not know that Jim is relishing the feel of water on his skin, is remembering how the rain smells different in Dublin, and how it is so much colder when each little droplet hits you like an icy bullet. He is not a sentimental boy, but he is not an American boy either, and there is a crawling sensation beneath his skin that yearns to be somewhere closer to his land of origin.

“How very observant of you,” Jim says, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead and continuing on his journey.

Sebastian is nothing if not persistent. He drives beside Jim for several blocks, attempting to coax him into conversation. He is steadfastly ignored, and forced to give up when Jim ducks down an alley where Sebastian can no longer follow him.

He repeats the same process every day after school. It takes eight days before Jim finally gives in.

“If that's what it takes to get rid of you.” He drops into the passenger's seat with a long, drawn out sigh, and even as the words leave his mouth, he knows that he is only adding fuel to the fire.

*

Jim does not speak the first couple of times Sebastian drives him to the end of his street. The only time he opens his mouth is to insist: “Here will do. I can walk the rest.”

Eventually Sebastian stops arguing.

It is the fourth time that Sebastian has managed to talk Jim into his car that he turns to face him, those dark eyes wide and unblinking, and Sebastian feels a sense of discomfort that usually only his father can inspire in him. A sense of inferiority. Of being judged and not quite meeting the standard.

“Why do ya keep doin' this?” Jim manages to make the question sound like an accusation, and Sebastian isn't entirely sure how to answer.

“I'm going this way anyway. It's not like it's any trouble.”

“Bollocks.”

“...What?”

“That's bollocks.”

“Boll-”

“Yes. You live in the opposite direction, out near the edge of town.”

“How do you know-”

“I know a lot of things.”

Jim says this with such certainty, such finality, that Sebastian questions him no further. His fingers flex around the wheel, and he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead, attempting a casual recline in his seat so as not to give himself away. Jim emits a huff of air and folds his arms.

“So, why do you do it?”

“I don't know,” says Sebastian, because that is the truth, because he cannot think of a lie.

“You don't know very much, d'ya?”

Sebastian shrugs. Jim lets out another irritated huff, which in turn draws an amused laugh from Sebastian. Jim sends him a dark look, but when he turns his head towards the window, a smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

*

The next day Jim is waiting for him by his baby. He is leaning against the driver's door, having observed Sebastian enough times to know he always comes to his car alone, so Jim has no reason to fear the other idiots he associates with. Sebastian pauses at the sight of him. In his surprise he is too slow to disguise his grin of delight, and tries to make up for this by nudging Jim aside.

“Alright, Shorty, round your side.”

“If you're going to be rude, I am perfectly capable of walking,” Jim tells him, but is already circling to the passenger's side.

It is the first time they properly talk.

It takes Sebastian by surprise, really, because he isn't expecting what comes from Jim's mouth. He had assumed, of course, that the boy had jets, with the way he always seems to be reading or furiously writing away in his notebook any time Sebastian spots him in school. However, Jim exceeds his expectations. He looks out the passenger window and talks, low and fast in that accent Sebastian so enjoys; of space, the stars, the different phases of the moon. Sebastian doesn't understand half of what he's saying, but he listens anyway.

When he stops at the usual drop off point, Jim doesn't get out. He's in the middle of a lengthy speech on how huge the launch of the Sputnik satellite was, still is, the implications it has, how it is “the beginning of something much bigger. This is only the start, the foundation. Just wait.” It's only twenty minutes later that he realises, and quickly slips out of the car. He ducks down to look in at Sebastian once more, fleetingly, before closing the door and walking away without another word.

*

Carl Powers spots them on the dry riverbed one day.

It's usually deserted when there's no races on, so Sebastian has been using it as the place he can take Jim for their after school chats, with little chance of them being spotted. Jim doesn't like being around people and Sebastian, well, Sebastian wants to keep Jim to himself. While he knows it would damage his reputation for them to be seen together, that Greg or Vic would not understand, it is not shame that drives him to seek out the isolation. He doesn't want anyone else to have Jim's attention. He doesn't want anyone else to know anything about the Irish boy that he does not.

So they come to the riverbed in the evenings and they sit in Seb's car. Sebastian chain smokes. Jim reads, or scribbles equations, or fiddles with the radio. They're both avoiding going home for their own reasons.

The day Carl sees them, Sebastian is leaning against the hood, head tipped back as he blows out a stream of smoke. Jim is standing by his side, kicking pebbles as far as he can. Sebastian's eyes follow the path of one of these pebbles as it bounces and skips away, and it is while he is tracing its movement he catches sight of Powers from the corner of his eye.

“Aw, not this wet rag.” He drops his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe, instinctively shifting so he's partially in front of Jim.

“Hey, nosebleed! What're you doing with this odd ball? Bit square, even for you lot, isn't he?”

Jim watches the new boy over Sebastian's shoulder. He notices that, despite the cocky tone his put downs are delivered in, he doesn't step any closer.

“Get bent, Powers.”

“What's this? Have I rattled your cage?”

“Why don't you just shut up?”

“You gonna make me?”

“Well, ain't no one here to get in my way if I decide to. Who's gonna protect you this time?”

“I don't need no protectin'.” Carl gives a little stamp of his foot and spits in their direction.

“You wanna prove that?”

Sebastian takes a step forward, and Carl seems to reconsider. He straightens up, smoothing a hand over his hair and barking out a laugh.

“Oh, I will. You'll see, Moran. Your time is coming.”

“I'm real scared.”

“You should be,” Carl shouts back, determined to have the last word, before he disappears from view.

“Yeah yeah,” Sebastian murmurs, shaking his head. He turns to Jim, who has taken Sebastian's place against the hood, and throws him his usual bright smile. “Never mind that loser. He's all talk.”

“I wasn't concerned,” says Jim, insistent and defiant, and his expression is so fierce that Sebastian steps forward before he realises what he's doing, ducks his head down and-

Jim turns his head away and presses a firm hand to Sebastian's chest.

“I don't think so.”

“What, too afraid to kiss a boy?” There's a challenge in Sebastian's voice, as if that will work, as if he thinks he can prompt Jim into it by implying it's something he can't do. But Jim is not as eager to prove himself as Sebastian, and he only laughs.

“Don't be foolish, darling. I have no issue with kissing you.” Jim's eyes are dark and wicked when they flick up to meet Sebastian's, hold his gaze, burn into him with their intensity. He feels a thrill jolt through him at Jim's words, and tries to lean in again, but Jim's bony fingers press firm and sharp into his chest. “But you have to earn it.”

“And how do I do that?”

Jim shrugs, sliding out from beneath Sebastian.

“Work it out.”

*

He doesn't know how Powers finds him.

He would have noticed if he was being followed, he is sure of it. He doubts Powers or any of his little gang are sly enough to have tailed him without him noticing. So the morning he takes a new route to school past the diner, he puts it down to good luck on Powers' side, and a case of wrong time, wrong place on his.

They are lounging between two cars in the parking lot, laughing louder than necessary and shouting to be heard over each other. Upon catching sight of Jim, Carl holds up a hand and the noise trails off to a stop. Jim pretends not to see them, quickens his pace fractionally.

It is not enough.

“Hey nerd!”

And is that all they can come up with? Really? There must be a production line somewhere that pumps out manufactured idiots, Jim thinks, for their lack of originality.

He presses on without acknowledging them, but within seconds they have him circled. Jim's eyes narrow as he meets Carl's, and he holds himself straight and proud.

“Can I help ya?”

“Yeah, you can take a message to Moran,” Carl says, and before Jim can answer, he has been punched hard enough to wind him.

Jim springs forward to react, but his arms are pulled roughly behind his back. He bares his teeth and hisses, leaning back into his captors and kicking out at Carl. It's no good, though. He's outnumbered and overpowered, and after his initial struggle they restrain him in a way that leaves him no room to fight back or defend himself as they lay into him. They only stop and scatter when a waitress comes bursting out the door, hollering that she's going to call the cops. Jim can tell from her voice it's an empty threat, but they can not, and they let him fall to the sidewalk as they return to their cars.

“T'ank you, Denise.” Jim hears a familiar voice address the first, and even aching as he is, he has to restrain the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh Jesus, James, are you alright?”

“You might wanna bring him in, darlin'. Get him cleaned up,” says Denise, and Jim dislikes her instantly.

“James?”

“I'm fine.” Jim ignores the pain that racks through his body as he forces himself to his feet. He does not allow himself to flinch or wince, or anything else that could display weakness.

The woman in front of him bears a few striking similarities to Jim. She is short and pale, with large dark eyes, bearing smudges of tiredness beneath them. Her hair is thick and dark, tied back into a quick ponytail. Her tongue curls around words with the same lilting Irish brogue, but she is soft-spoken and hesitant each time her lips part. She has a warm face and a gentleness about her that angers Jim.

“Oh, but pet-”

“I said I'm _fine_ ,” Jim cuts her off, brushing down his clothes. His mouth tastes like copper, and when he runs his tongue along his lower lip he finds a split. “I'm going to be late for school.”

“But look at the state of ya, you're bleeding an' all-”

“I've had worse.”

That silences her. He meets her eyes, stares at her with anger and defiance, and then starts to walk away without another word.

“Will you be home late tonight?”

“I will get home when I get home.” He answers without turning.

There is a pause, and part of him hopes she will retreat. Hopes she will return to the diner without glancing back at him. Hopes she will give up on him in the same way he has given up on her, but of course, he knows. She won't. She never will.

“Have a good day at school, pet!”

He pretends not to hear.

*

Jim stops at the gate. He's already late, and while there's still plenty of people milling about, putting off going to class, it's not particularly crowded. No one has noticed him yet. He could easily walk away. He doesn't feel like school after what has happened. Doesn't feel like spending his day surrounded by idiots. While he's still debating, he hears a car horn sound behind him.

“Forgot how legs work, Shorty?”

Sebastian's tone is amused, but his expression falls when Jim glances back over his shoulder. There is still dried blood beneath his nose, and his lip is beginning to swell. Sebastian feels anger bubble in his chest at the sight, feels it burn beneath his skin.

“What happened?” he asks from between grit teeth, feeling beyond frosted.

Jim sniffs before he answers, shifts the weight of his bag on his shoulders.

“Powers' gang.”

It takes Sebastian all of three seconds to decide what he's going to do.

“Get in. We're cutting out of here.”

*

Sebastian pulls up alongside the curb once they're a few streets away. He glances across at Jim, slumped down in his seat and rubbing dried blood from beneath his nose.

“I don't got anything to clean you up with.”

“I'm fine.”

“Should probably get something to put on that lip.”

“I'm fine,” Jim insists, with more bite this time, and Sebastian relents.

“You wanna go catch a flick? The drive-in won't be open, but there's a theatre not far from here.”

Jim is quiet for a moment while he considers, and Sebastian nearly retracts the offer.

“Only if you're paying.”

They sit in the mostly empty theatre, waiting for Vertigo, the latest Hitchcock film, to start, and Sebastian is very aware of Jim's presence beside him in the dark. He slumps down in his chair, and as the screen flickers to life, he watches Jim from the corner of his eye. Jim remains up straight and alert, eyes trained attentively on the screen.

It is the first time Sebastian has seen Jim, if not quite happy, at least something beyond disinterested. His lips are slightly parted, and Sebastian is sure that's not just because of the swelling. His eyes are wide, and the light from the screen brightens his face. For the first half of the film he barely moves, and he looks so absorbed that Sebastian can't even bring himself to slide an arm around his shoulders the way he had planned to. There is no one to impress here, and it pleases him a surprising amount to see such engagement from Jim. He doesn't want to spoil it.

By the second half, the novelty has worn away some, and Jim comments on unrealistic or weak turns in the plot. However, when Sebastian tries to respond he is quickly shushed back into silence.

When they step back out into the light of day, Jim is still buzzing with excited energy, talking rapidly about this and that in the movie, what he liked and didn't like, how it could be improved. Sebastian listens, nods and adds 'mmm' and 'yeah' where it's appropriate, and when Jim looks at him, face all lit up with genuine delight, he can't help but grin back at him.

He drives them up to the make out point, looking down over the town. It's empty, the other kids not yet out of school, and the two of them sit in silence as they look out across the view.

Sebastian is thinking about Jim. About the changes in the boy towards him, how he is beginning to soften, if only fractionally, to open to Sebastian in ways that no one else gets to see. He steals a glance at him, bruising beginning to blossom along his jaw, and feels a fresh stab of anger. Oh, Powers is cruisin' for a bruisin', and Sebastian is going to deliver it with the utmost joy.

*

Sebastian comes to him, with cuts on his knuckles and bruises on his face. Jim knows without asking who it is that has just been on the receiving end of Sebastian's anger. He raises an eyebrow and says nothing as the other boy drops beside him on the stands, kicking an empty juice carton away. It is late in the evening. The track and football field beneath them are deserted, and the sky is orange. Sebastian holds his hand out like an offering to Jim.

“Hit him so hard I split my own knuckles.”

“What d'ya want me to do about it?” Jim's glance flicks from Sebastian's cut knuckles, to his face, then back to the book in his lap.

Sebastian is lost for an answer. Any dolly would gush over him. Would kiss his wounds and call him their hero. Would talk about how brave and noble he is, as if he had actually done something worthwhile, something heroic. He would brush off their attentions with perfected nonchalance, but secretly his chest would swell with pride.

Not Jim. Jim leaves him with aching knuckles, a pounding headache, and a sense of confusion about what he is supposed to do now. He sits in silence by Jim's side as the sky burns from orange to red, until the soft swish of turning pages ceases and Jim slides the book into his bag. He finally turns his head towards Sebastian, a frown tugging down at the corner of his mouth.

“Clean them up. Antiseptic to stop the infection. And put some ice on that eye. Although...” Jim's fingers skim along his cheekbone and for a second Sebastian forgets how to breathe. “Nice, dark bit of bruising might suit ya.”

Jim's lips brush along the same spot as his fingers. Sebastian's head turns quickly, eager to meet his lips, but Jim is already moving away. He doesn't say goodbye as he hops down along the row of bleachers. Doesn't look back or wave. Doesn't acknowledge Sebastian at all, who can only watch as his form crosses the field, getting smaller and smaller until he is gone.

*

“Your da wouldn't approve of me, you know.”

“My father doesn't approve of many things.”

“You want him to approve of you.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Only everything about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on. It's obvious. You walk straighter than anyone else your age. Military background. It's ingrained into you. Even when you try to slump, try to do that ridiculous strut of yours – no, don't give me that face, it is ridiculous – even then, you can't completely shake it. It's your attempt at rebellion, but you can't even manage it properly.”

“Whatever, Freud.”

“You're eager to please. It's ingrained into you, which says something about your upbringing. You manage to restrain it with most people, but not all.”

“Do tell me, who am I so eager to please then?”

“Me.”

“Ha.”

“You're always trying to please me.”

“Someone's self absorbed.”

“Observant, is more like it.”

“You'd love Sherlock.”

“Holmes is interesting, but too self destructive for my tastes. We'd never fit together, it would be chaotic. I prefer to watch from a distance.”

“I'm sure he'd be real cranked to hear about that.”

“You won't tell him.”

“I won't?”

“Nah.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Your eagerness to please me.”

“Sherlock's been my scooch longer than you.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“...No.”

“Well then.”

*

The next time Sebastian comes to him, bruised and bleeding, Jim sets down his book and pulls a first aid kit from his bag. Sebastian's face lights up, but he quickly clears his throat and turns his head away, forcing his expression back into one of indifference. Jim rolls his eyes. As if he couldn't read Sebastian like a book.

“You bought a first aid kit for me?”

“Something like that.”

As if Jim buys anything. As if Jim has the money to buy anything, let alone something that is going to profit him in no way at all. The kit is stolen from the nurse's office. If Sebastian wants to read something into it, that's his problem, not Jim's. He's lucky that Jim is helping at all, that he is taking the time to dab antiseptic over his split knuckles, to press plasters down firmly and without caution.

Sebastian cherishes the sting and the ache, cherishes anything Jim gives him.

“Do I get my kiss yet?”

“Don't push it.”

*

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don't want to.”

Sebastian sighs and flops back against his seat, running a hand along his hair, light, careful not to mess the style.

“If you're worried about someone seeing us-”

“I'm not.”

“'Cause I don't care, y'know-”

“I said, I'm not worried about anyone. I just don't want to go.”

“Okay, okay.” There is a pause, a beat of silence between them. Sebastian scratches his jaw line. “If you don't want to go out with me-”

“I'm out with you now, aren't I?”

“You know what I-”

“You're reading too much into it, and you don't have the intelligence to be making those kind of assumptions.” If it were anyone else, Sebastian would interrupt, would be offended, but he knows that Jim is much smarter than him, and that it's not worth the effort of argument. Besides, he's used to Jim's snide remarks, just lets them slide off of him like water. After all, it's still he who Jim chooses to spend his time with. “I just don't want to go to the stupid diner. Now drop it.”

Sebastian doesn't know that Jim's mother works there. Works long hours that leave her exhausted and aching, in a uniform that doesn't always cover the bruising, taking whatever overtime she can to make enough to cover the bills. America was supposed to be their fresh start, their better life, but Jim had known even before his father had accepted the new job that it was never going to work.

“Wanna come back to my pad then?”

Jim glances across at him, curious. He's never been to Sebastian's house before.

“Okay.”

*

The Moran household is the picture perfect embodiment of the American dream. A big, two story house out in the suburbs, painted brilliant white, with a picket fence around the neatly mowed lawn to match. Flowers frame the edges of the garden, and a driveway runs alongside it to a double garage. Sebastian parks in the driveway and leads Jim up to the quaint little porch out front, with a wooden porch swing on one side, and a Maloof rocking chair opposite it.

The house is impeccably clean and neat, everything in its place. Sebastian pads around the first floor while Jim examines the pictures in the hall. A man with Sebastian's eyes in an army uniform, standing proud and to attention. The same man younger, happier, his arm around a young, smiling woman in a wedding dress. A chubby, child Sebastian, standing by the woman's side, clutching a toy gun.

He notices there are no recent photographs.

“House to ourselves. No one's in.” Sebastian comes back down the hall. “ Aw, don't look at those.”

“Weren't you just adorable?”

Sebastian groans and gives Jim a little shove.

“Shut up.”

To Jim's surprise, Sebastian's room is almost as neat as the rest of the house. There's a few things out of place. A tube of Brylcreem missing the cap sits on the set of drawers by his bed side, a comb lays haphazardly beside it; there are several issues of Esquire magazine poking out from beneath the bed, and the walls bear several posters; of Elvis Presley, of Marilyn Monroe, of James Dean.

Jim looks around with interest, examining the bookcase by the wall. He's surprised to find it quite well stocked, and impressed that Sebastian has the ability to surprise him. Jim hadn't suspected an interest in literature. There's Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway, and Eliot, among others, and lined along the front of one of the shelves are a collection of toy soldiers. Jim touches one lightly, straightens it a bit.

There's a record player in the corner, a stack of records beside it. Sebastian is kneeling by it, moving the needle into place. The sound of Elvis fills the room as Sebastian rises, looks towards Jim with a grin.

_You ain't nothin' but a Hound Dog, rockin' all the time._

“Come on, snake. Let's rattle.”

“Wha-” Sebastian catches Jim's wrist, pulls him closer. “Oh no. I don't dance. No.”

“Aw, don't be a party pooper.”

“No, Sebastian.”

Seb tries to lead Jim into a dance regardless, but Jim stubbornly pulls away, folding his arms to create a defensive barrier in front of him.

“No.”

“Fine. No dancing. What about making out, then?” Sebastian crowds into Jim's space again, hands sliding down to rest on his hips.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Never ever. Not on you.”

Jim stares up at Sebastian thoughtfully, eyes soft around the edges. His lips are pursed and it looks like an invitation, but Sebastian doesn't try to move in. He's been clanked enough times. He's going to wait for Jim to initiate before he tries something again.

“If that's what it takes to get you to shut up about it,” Jim says, quietly, knowing that he is only adding fuel to the fire.

“Is that a yes?”

“Aye, I suppose it is.”

Sebastian grins, giddy with excitement, as Jim lowers his folded arms. He moves one of his hands to Jim's jaw, cupping it as he tilts Jim's head up. Jim in turn cups his elbow, fingers light and hesitant. The fingers of his other hand curl around the wrist by his waist, hold firm as Sebastian closes the space between them and presses his lips against Jim's, overeager from how long he's had to wait.

The first kiss is a little too fast, a little too excited, and their lips collide rather than press. Sebastian lightens the pressure, tries again, moulds his mouth to the shape of Jim's thin, chapped lips. Jim is still and uncertain beneath him, letting Sebastian lead for once, waiting until he's sure of the technique before he makes a move back.

Sebastian chuckles against his lips.

“What's wrong, never been kissed before?”

Jim is silent, lips curving down in a frown, brow furrowed in displeasure.

“Oh, hell, really?”

“Shut up.”

“Why didn't you say-”

“Shut _up_ , moron.”

“I'd better make this real good then.” Sebastian is smiling, and the amusement is gone now, leaving only warm affection to battle Jim's silent fuming. He attempts to resist as a matter of principle when Sebastian leans in again, but Seb rubs circles with his thumb above Jim's jawline, and within a few seconds he has relaxed.

Sebastian goes slower this time, moving his mouth against Jim's, who is tense and still beneath him. The hand on his hip slides around to the base of his back, pulls him closer as Sebastian runs his tongue along his lower lip, prompts them apart.

Jim has never seen the appeal of having someone else's tongue in your mouth, someone else's saliva mixing with yours, but he does feel a pleasant tingle run through him at the first slide of Sebastian's tongue against his, and decides he may have been wrong. He moves his own, hesitant, experimental, and Sebastian gives him a hum of approval as he guides him back against the wall. Jim isn't a fan of feeling trapped, caged in, but he's too distracted by the pressure of Sebastian's mouth to complain.

*

It turns out that Jim has a surprising possessive streak in him. Sebastian isn't sure why this comes as such as a surprise. It is in keeping with Jim's character, but he still isn't expecting it to be so strong.

After lots of slow kissing, of experimenting, of gaining enthusiasm and heat, Sebastian starts dropping kisses down along Jim's jaw. He is tense at first, still and unsure all over again, but he gradually relaxes beneath the press of Sebastian's mouth, a surprised whimper escaping when Seb flicks his tongue along his ear. Sebastian smirks, takes a few seconds to toy with it, teeth and tongue and hot suction, before making his way down the column of Jim's throat.

He sucks lightly, not hard enough to bruise, repeats this action a few times before he tugs Jim's shirt collar down and bites into the curve of his throat, worries the skin beneath his teeth. Jim whines when he bites down, wriggling beneath Sebastian, and it is beautiful.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Mm no, just me.”

Sebastian grins, lazily laps at the forming bruise. Jim's fingers come up, ghost over the spot. He crawls over Sebastian and moves to stand in front of the mirror, examining the mark. Sebastian observes from the bed, propped on his elbows, watching Jim through lidded eyes. When he turns again, his eyes are dark, his mouth set in a determined line as he prowls across to Sebastian.

Jim drops down over him, a leg on either side of his hips, and the sight of that alone is enough for Sebastian's heartbeat to pick up. Jim ducks his head down, drags the tip of his tongue up along the length of Sebastian's throat and breathes hotly against his ear. Sebastian inhales sharply just as Jim bites down on his neck, hard. There is no build up with Jim, no soft teasing beforehand, just teeth determined to leave their mark.

By the time they are done, Sebastian has five bruises darkening on his neck and Jim is looking real proud of himself.

*

Sebastian approaches Jim in school, which is unusual, because they usually spend their days apart. Sebastian with Greg and Vic, and, when he bothers to show up, Sherlock. Jim by himself. That's how Sebastian finds him, in the top corner of the bleachers, writing out a series of complicated equations in his little notebook.

“Was it Powers again?”

Jim looks up at him with feigned innocence.

“Excuse me?”

Sebastian drops down beside him, and Jim can sense the anger bubbling so close to the surface, can practically taste it, hot and potent. He knows Sebastian is quick tempered. Is fierce, volatile, and untamed; like a volcano, like a large jungle cat. That if pushed to his limit it comes out in violent bursts, and yet, regardless of how much Jim pushes his buttons, Sebastian never lashes out at him. That he is the only one who can tame him.

“Your eye. The bruising is fresh. Who was it?”

“Oh. No one.”

“Jim.”

“Why are you talking to me? Someone might see.”

“Jim. Tell me.”

“It wasn't-”

“Was it someone I know? Is that why-”

“Look, I fell down the stairs, okay? That's all. It's stupid and embarrassing, so can we please not talk about it.”

Sebastian is not fooled. He has sported enough black eyes himself to know what the aftermath to being hit by someone looks like.

“Bollocks.”

To his surprise, Jim starts laughing. It bubbles up and out of him, gleeful little giggles. Sebastian frowns, his brow furrows in a mixture of anger and confusion. This is serious. What the hell is Jim laughing about? And he is properly laughing, bent over and clutching his ribs, small body quivering with the force of it.

“Oh, sweet J-Jesus.”

“What?”

Jim shakes his head, lips parted as silent laughter still quakes his frame. He wipes tears from the corner of his eyes.

“Bollocks.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, darling, no. That just sounds ridiculous with your accent.”

“Jim, this isn't funny.”

Jim sniffs, rubs at the corner of his bruised eye.

“On the contrary, it's hilarious.”

“Who hit you?”

“No one. Now run along, I'm busy.”

“Jim-”

“Sebastian.” Jim says his name so sharply that Sebastian knows better than to argue further. He makes a show of sighing as he stands again, but Jim has already turned his attentions back to his equations.

*

They are on Sebastian's bed. Jim is beneath him, and he can feel every shift of his body, can feel every breath and sigh against his face between kisses. It's not often that Jim will stay still and let him Sebastian spoil him with affection. Not often that he will let their make out sessions go on for any length of time, and Sebastian is intent on taking full advantage of it. His fingers skim the base of Jim's sweater, tips slipping beneath, but a growl of warning is enough to make him remove his hand.

If it were anyone else, he'd have dumped them by now. It's been weeks and weeks of build up, of chasing and playing games, of trying to be what Jim wants him to be, and he's still lucky if he can touch him at all without getting his hands batted away. Any girl would have been dumped by now, and Sebastian would be on the prowl for his next piece, but there's something about Jim that keeps him coming back, even without the promise of more.

Jim stirs a hunger within him that Sebastian has never felt before. It is hot and fierce, and swells up through his chest like wildfire. It is unlike anything in his experience. He wants. He wants with greater desire than he has ever wanted before, but it is for more than back seat bingo, for more than hands shoved down pants and quick orgasms.

He wants to map Jim out, body and mind, wants to know him inside out. He wants to unravel the mystery that is this small Irish boy. To examine the flicker in those dark eyes, to learn from what embers the flames burn. He wants to understand all those murmured words, especially the ones that come rapid fire in a foreign tongue. He wants to know where Jim goes when his eyes turn vacant and he stops blinking, stops moving. He wants to know if he occupies Jim's mind half as often as Jim occupies his, and if not, what does.

He also wants to strip away the layers of worn, second-hand clothes and discover what lays beneath. Wants to catalogue the expanse of Jim's skin with teeth and tongue and trailing fingers. He wants to memorise every freckle and scar, to investigate every inch of pale canvas and learn what responses they draw, what will cause Jim to giggle or sigh or writhe beneath him like he does in Sebastian's mind. When he doesn't bat away his advances, doesn't growl or snap or hit him away, only sighs and moans and whimpers out _more_ and _please_ and, best of all, _Sebastian_ so breathless and pretty that no force on earth could stop Seb from obeying.

Jim flips them. He takes Sebastian's wrists in his small hands and pins them above his head. Sebastian could break free with little to no effort, but he lets Jim hold him in place, gives Jim that control; just as Jim knew he would, just as he always does. Jim kisses him for his good behaviour, hot and hard, tongue teasing it's way into Sebastian's mouth. His hips rock against Sebastian's and draw a moan he can't suppress, his heart rate picking up because this is it, Jim is finally giving him what he's waited for for so long.

But then Jim's weight is gone, and his warmth is gone, and Sebastian is left on his back as Jim wanders across the room. He thumbs through the records as if nothing has happened, while Sebastian adjusts himself in his jeans.

Jim often sits by the record player for long breaks of time, flicking through Sebastian's rather extensive collection with avid interest, switching between different records, head tilted to the side and brow furrowed in concentration as he listens. Sebastian wishes Jim would give him that kind of look. The look that is preserved for records, for books, for movies, for any new source of knowledge. That absorbed attention as Jim takes in all new information, breathes it in and drinks it down, stores it away in that brilliant head of his for later use.

He delights in music. All music. Sebastian had brought some of his father's older records down to his room (he's not supposed to touch anything belonging to his father, but he had been away and Sebastian felt the risk was worth it for Jim), and Jim's eyes had gone big and bright when he'd first heard Chopin. He'd curled his fingers around Sebastian's wrist while they listened to Beethoven, as if warning him to stay quiet without words. His lips had parted for Bach, tongue darting out as if he could taste the music settled upon them. His face had lit up while they sat side by side, their breathing the only sound accompanying Vivaldi's _Winter_ , and he'd taken an instant shine to Rossini, who he had played over and over until Sebastian had to take the records back to his father's study.

Now he simply removes Buddy Holly and puts Ray Charles in, swaying his head side to side in that little way he has as the music starts. He rises to his feet and the sway moves down his body to his hips. He knows Sebastian is watching, and makes the movement of his body purposefully slow and emphasised, before he pads back across to the bed and pokes Sebastian in the side.

“Move, I need space to do my homework.”

And Sebastian does, just as Jim knew he would, just as he always does.

*

“We don't see all that much of you any more, Seb.”

Sebastian sniffs, rolls his head towards Vic and lowers his sunglasses enough to meet his eyes.

“You see me every day, don't cha?”

“You know what he means,” says Greg. “We haven't seen you outside of school in over a week.”

“Oh golly, how have you been surviving without me?”

“Aw, get bent, Seb.” Vic again, shaking his head in irritation. “You jacketed with some dolly or something? Too busy to hang with your boys?”

Sebastian laughs, harsh and without humour, but doesn't answer.

“So you are, eh, Basher?” says Greg, and he grins across at Vic.

“C'mon then, tell us about her.”

“There's no girl.”

“Is it Adler? I've seen her giving you the eye.” Vic gives Sebastian a playful punch on the arm. Sebastian rolls his eyes, nudging his glasses back into place. “She's a hot little number.”

“It's not Adler.”

“You can tell us,” says Greg, then adds, in a worried tone he tries to conceal: “It's not Hooper, is it?”

The urge to bang the pair of their heads together is rising.

“Look, there's no girl. Can you just back off?”

A pause after his outburst. The two boys look between each other. It's not like Sebastian to lose his cool over a bit of harmless teasing. Greg looks away, turns his attention to lighting up a smoke instead. Vic tries to lighten the mood.

“Well if you haven't got dibs on her, d'ya think she'd go for me?” He throws a glance at Greg. “Adler, I mean.”

“In your dreams, maybe.”

“Hey!”

Greg snickers. Sebastian laughs along with him, and everything is okay again, except he can't shake the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

*

He is by the record player again, with that same expression of rapt attention, of wonder, of genuine joy that Sebastian is so smitten with. He steals clandestine glances when Jim isn't looking, when his tongue is caught between his teeth in concentration as he changes the needle to different tracks. Jim has talked him through his history homework, has made out points for him to expand on and left him to write up the report himself, denying further kisses until it is done, but watching Jim is difficult to resist, especially when his guard is down.

He discovered Sinatra a few days before, properly, more than just background noise on the radio, and on his next visit had dug through Sebastian's records for every Sinatra vinyl he owns. He has since been spending most of his time over going through them, head tilted ever so slightly at an angle as he listens, occasionally swaying side to side in that strange little manner that is Jim's and Jim's alone.

Sebastian writes quickly when he's not looking at Jim, eager to be done. He likes to focus on Jim while he's here, doesn't like to waste a second. When he's done, he sets the book aside, just as the track changes.

Sebastian smiles, walking over to Jim and standing behind him. Jim tips his head back, rests it against Sebastian's knee as he looks up at him.

_You make me feel so young_

“What?”

“Stand up.”

“Why?”

“C'mon.”

“I told you, I don't dance.”

“Aw, Jim, this music was made for dancing.”

“That's ridiculous. You have no evidence to back up that statement.”

“How can you listen to that and not want to dance?”

_The moment that you speak_

“Very easily. Like this.” Jim stares up at him blankly.

“One dance.”

“No.”

“How do you know you don't dance if you've never tried it?”

“No.”

“One dance.”

“Fine! If it will shut you up.” And even as he says it, he knows he's adding fuel to the fire. As usual, Sebastian is the only one capable of talking him into these ridiculous notions. He rises to his feet, looking sullen as Sebastian smiles and pulls him closer, kisses the tip of his nose, causes him to scrunch it up, pulling a face. Sebastian's smile turns to laughter, and he takes one of Jim's hands in his own, the other going to his waist.

_You make me feel so young_

“How come I'm the girl?”

“I only know how to lead. Now hush.”

_You make me feel there are songs to be sung_

Sebastian leads them into a dance around his bedroom, and Jim is clumsy at first, is unsure of how to move his body. Sebastian is patient, guides him along until he begins to get the hang of it, until their bodies move along naturally, led by the music. Jim is determined to remain miserable throughout the whole ordeal, is annoyed when he feels his lips start to twitch. Sebastian is grinning at him as if he knows, as if he can tell, and Jim has to look away as a laugh escapes him at how ridiculous they must look, how ridiculous this all is.

_Wonderful fling to be flung_

“And you told me you can't dance.”

“Don't. I said I don't dance, I never said I couldn't.”

Their eyes meet, and this time Jim gives into the giddy joy rising inside him, allows it to spill over into giggles. Sebastian laughs along, twirling Jim before pulling him close, kissing him sweetly.

_Oh, you make me feel so young._

*

Sebastian takes Jim to the passion pit, anticipating a night of making out in his car, illuminated only by the flickering light of the screen. Foolish mistake on his part, really. He should have known. Jim gives movies the same rapt attention as books and music. He allows the fake yawn and stretch that leads up to Sebastian putting an arm around him to go ignored, but when Seb attempts to lean in for a kiss, Jim turns his head away.

“Not now.”

“Aw, c'mon.”

“I'm watching this.”

“Wouldn't you rather-”

“No.”

“Bollocks.”

“I told you to stop saying that.”

“Jim.”

“If you don't shut up right this instant you'll be lucky if I ever let you kiss me again.”

With that, Jim lifts Sebastian's arm from around his shoulders and turns his attention back to the large screen in front of them. Sebastian sighs, disappointed. He folds his arms across his chest and sits in sulking silence for the next five minutes before growing bored of that. Realising he's not going to gain Jim's attention for the duration of the movie, he slips out of the car to buy them some sodas.

On his way back he meets Greg, who is looking flushed and giddy, smiling broadly. It falters when he spots Sebastian, but he can't fight it down completely.

“Seb- Ah, hey.”

“Greg.” Sebastian gives a little nod of acknowledgement. He's intending to slip around and hurry back to Jim, but Greg looks so flustered that he can't help but wonder why. “What's buzzin, cuzzin?”

“Oh, you know.” Greg pulls out his comb, if only for something to do with his nervous hands. He runs it through his hair a few times. “Just out with Molly.”

“Molly? Oh. Oh! That Hooper girl?”

Greg's blush darkens and he clears his throat.

“Yeah, Hooper.”

Sebastian grins and shifts the sodas to one arm so he can pat Greg on the arm.

“That's great, man. Good luck.”

“Heh. Thanks, Seb.”

Greg is so distracted by his own giddy joy that he doesn't think to question who Sebastian is with. Sebastian takes advantage of this and slips away before he thinks of it. He settles back in his baby and hands one of the sodas across to Jim, who accepts it without a word, eyes still focused on the movie. His face seems softer by the light from the screen, and Sebastian spends most of the rest of the movie watching him instead.

*

Sebastian curls his arms around Jim from behind, nuzzles into his hair and squeezes him lightly.

Jim hisses sharply, and Sebastian goes still.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“You sounded like I hurt-”

“No.” Jim pulls free of Sebastian's grasp, puts space between them on the bed.

“Jim, are you sure I didn't-”

“Some of us are trying to do their homework, Sebastian.”

Sebastian doesn't push it any further, but any time he touches Jim in the future it is with caution.

*

The first time they have sex is in the back of Sebastian's baby (he referred to it as his hot rod once, and Jim found the word so distasteful he has been banned from using it again.) They're in the back seat, Jim sprawled across Sebastian as he nips at his lower lip, hands tangled through Seb's hair, and Bing Crosby is crooning in the background.

_Stars shining bright above you_

Sebastian daringly slides his hands beneath Jim's shirt, is surprised when Jim doesn't stop him. He pushes the material up and moves his palms along the sides of Jim's spine. Jim surprises him further by sighing and wriggling his hips down against Sebastian's, drawing a breathy moan from him.

_Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me_

“Jim-”

“No. Don't speak. You'll ruin it.”

So he doesn't.

_Still craving your kiss_

Jim's hands start exploring as well, palms pressing against Sebastian's stomach, feeling muscles quiver beneath them. Fingertips trace up along his ribcage, circle nipples, and Sebastian thinks that he is like an experiment; like Jim is examining him, mentally taking him apart, categorising him. Then Jim presses a tongue into his mouth and drags nails down over his chest simultaneously, drawing a sharp hiss as Sebastian arches into the touch, and he stops thinking.

Sebastian sits up, arm curled around Jim's waist so he doesn't fall off. The back seat is a confined space, but it's not the first time Sebastian's done this in here, and he has learned how to navigate within it. He peels off his own shirt and drops it aside, pulling Jim's off before he has the chance to protest. The car is mostly dark, and Sebastian can just about make out the paleness of Jim's form in the dim. Then they are flush together, and Sebastian's mouth drops to Jim's shoulder, mouths hotly before biting down, intent on marking, possessive.

Jim's nails drag down over his scalp in response; a quiet gasp he can't quite contain falling from his lips. He rolls his hips against Sebastian's, working on instinct, using the sounds Seb makes as his feedback. Sebastian is impatient, has waited long enough; has spent enough evenings in the shower jerking himself to completion over the thought of Jim's lips around him, Jim's eyes staring up at him, Jim's skin pale and blossoming bruises beneath his hands. His fingers move to Jim's trousers, start working the buttons open.

_Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you_

Jim leans back to give him room. His fingers are tangled in Sebastian's hair and his heart is thudding a hard, fast rhythm against his chest. He is panting out breaths that catch in his throat when Sebastian finally gets through layers of material, curls around him and strokes just so, makes his head spin.

Sebastian in turn is dizzy with the knowledge that he is the first to touch Jim as intimately as this; the first to hear the soft sigh it draws from his lips, the first to stroke and feel and caress. He wants to whisper that into Jim's skin; whisper how Jim is his, how no one else has done this, to put the possessive coil of victory he can feel in his chest into words.

It's not his first time with a boy. He's had several in the past. Quick, one time things that he's never had to face again afterwards. He and Vic have even, after one too many beers, had a drunken fumble in the back seat of Vic's 1952 Chevrolet Bel Air, parked in his driveway past two on a school night. The next day Vic had made him swear to never mention it again, had flushed with anger or embarrassment or some mix of the two, and had quite firmly insisted it _never_ happened.

But none of those compare to Jim.

_You ain't just dreamin'_

Jim is exciting in ways that no one else has been. Jim, with his charming accent and his sharp words, with his pale skin and dark eyes, with his quiet, assured confidence and an intelligence beyond his years. Jim is different because Jim is the first person Sebastian wants specifically, wants for more than skin on skin, wants in every way possible.

So when he catches the lobe of Jim's ear between his teeth and twists his wrist experimentally, it is more than a means to reach an end. It is eagerness to please, to impress, to _deserve._ It is longing and desire burning like hot coals beneath his skin, not only for his own physical release, but to make Jim want in the same ways Sebastian wants, to consume him like he has been consumed, to spread the fire that is searing through him, and let it burn over both of them until one is indistinguishable from the other.

When they are flesh to flesh, warm skin sweat slick; when Sebastian is growling against Jim's mouth, swallowing down his sighs and whimpers; when everything is hot and tingling and he's no longer sure who he is trying to get off first, something in Sebastian purrs with deep satisfaction.

_In your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me._

*

“No.”

“Aw, c'mon.”

“I am not getting on that death trap.”

“You get in my car.”

“There's a difference.”

Sebastian revs his bike in response, shifts his weight in the seat. Jim shakes his head, arms folded stubbornly across his chest.

“Jim, just get on, alright. I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I'm not going to stand here arguing with you.”

“Then don't.”

“Fine.”

Sebastian hits the kick stand with his heel, straightens the bike and revs it again. He grins at Jim, who stares him down with dark, unrelenting eyes. Sebastian gives a little one shouldered shrug and gets ready to lift his foot.

“Right, okay, I'll get on the dumb bike.”

“Excellent.”

“Don't. Just, don't.”

Jim gets on behind him, and Sebastian can feel him, a strip of heat along the length of his back. He revs the bike and the vibration runs up through both of them. As they start to move forward, Jim's arms tighten around his waist. Sebastian lifts his foot and turns up the speed. He hears Jim's sharp intake of breath, feels his face pressed between his shoulder blades.

“I hate you!” It's muffled into Sebastian's leather jacket, but loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engine. Sebastian pretends it is not. He increases the amount of throttle and the bike shoots down the road. His laughter blends with the rush of the wind.

*

Jim is reluctant to let Sebastian undress him the first time they get the house alone to themselves.

“Aw, c'mon, it's not like I haven't seen it before.”

Jim just tightens his arms across his chest, back to the wall, shaking his head. His mouth is a firm, thin line of displeasure, and he won't answer when Sebastian asks him why.

“Can't we just do it clothes on?”

“That'll just make a mess.” Sebastian kneels in front of Jim, takes his face in his hands and runs his thumbs along Jim's cheekbones. “Look, I think you're beautiful, alright? Nothin' is gonna change that.”

Jim huffs out and irritated sigh.

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It's- nothing.”

“If it's nothing, then what's the problem?”

Jim meets his eyes then, and his own are narrowed into an angry scowl. He shakes Sebastian off of him and grabs the end of his shirt, pulls it up and over his head in one swift motion and tosses it aside. His confidence seems to falter with this, and he breaks off the eye contact.

Sebastian feels his stomach drop.

Jim's body is a canvas of bruises; is a landscape of cuts and scrapes and blooming colours blossoming over one another. The pale is painted with yellows and greens; with purples and blues and greys around the edges. There are gashes here and there, the lines of nail marks and some that are deeper, that are from something else, something worse.

Sebastian lets out a shuddering exhale and realises that he has not been breathing.

“You never told me.”

“There's nothing you can do.”

“Is it Powers? Has he been-”

“It's not him.”

“Then who? Whoever it is, I'll deal with them. I'll make them-”

Jim touches his arm. It is a light touch, but enough to silence him immediately. He has never seen Jim look so vulnerable. Never seen him look so small and open and lost. There's still that fire burning beneath it, a rage in his eyes and in the slight downward curl at the edge of his mouth, but it is nothing compared to usual; it is too subtle, too restrained.

“Not with this one, Sebastian. You can't beat this one.”

“What do you- Oh. Hell, Jim, it isn't-?”

Jim smiles, but it is thin, it is bitter, it is fake.

“Atta boy.”

“That's why you never want to go home.”

“Among other things.” Jim shrugs, voice casual, trying to make light of the whole thing. It doesn't work.

“I didn't know. Shit, Jim, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-”

“Stop!” Jim raises himself up, glares into Sebastian face with barely suppressed rage. “I don't want pity. I don't want sympathy. I don't want you to feel _sorry_ for me.”

“Okay.” Sebastian nods, steels away his own emotion and focuses on Jim, only Jim, always Jim. “What do you want?”

“I want you to make me forget.”

And Sebastian does. Just as Jim knew he would. Just as he always does.

*

Jim is lying on his back, eyes closed and expression one of peaceful pleasure as he listens to _The Thieving Magpie_ for the third time. Sebastian's parents are away at a dinner party, and he'd risked bringing his father's records from the office again because he knows how much Jim likes them. Sebastian is on his stomach, running his fingers through Jim's hair, styling it into a grease-free imitation of his own ducktail do.

“You'd look real good as a lil greaser, y'know?”

Jim opens one eye into a slit, squints up at Sebastian.

“What do I want to look like you and your little cluster of idiots for?”

“I'm just sayin'-”

“So am I.”

“I think it would be hot.”

“You and thinking don't mix well. You leave that to me.”

“Aw, c'mon. Won't cha try it? For me?”

“Let you put that disgusting wax in my hair?”

“Just a lil.”

“Have you seen yourself? I don't really think you understand what 'excessive' is.”

“I'll blow you.”

“You'll blow me anyway.”

“Jiiiim.”

“When does your annoying whining ever work?”

“You can shower right afterwards.” Sebastian mouths at Jim's neck; drops sweet, open mouth kisses with teasing flick of tongue. “C'mon. Just once.”

“If it will shut you up.”

“Yessss.”

Sebastian hops up, keen to take advantage of this opportunity. He spends the next half an hour dressing Jim up. His white t-shirt is baggy on Jim's frame, even after it's been tucked into his trousers, and he's practically lost in Sebastian's leather jacket (although he won't deny he likes the look of Jim in that). Jim looks older with his hair styled back from his face, and Sebastian was right in thinking he'd look good. Good is an understatement. He looks mouthwatering.

“I'll take your staring as a good sign, then.” Jim raises an eyebrow, turning to examine himself in the mirror. “Hmm. Not completely awful.”

Even as he's speaking, Sebastian presses against his back, face nuzzling the curve of Jim's neck as he mouths over his skin. He rocks his hips forward against Jim's ass as his fingers fumble to open his buttons.

“So eager. You've only just got me all dressed up.”

“And now I want you all dressed down.”

He's going to have Jim in the shower. Pale and dripping, water cascading down his body, and Sebastian is going to kneel between his feet, is going to stare up at him and worship him with his mouth as if he were a god.

Then later he is going to try and talk Jim into wearing his hair like this more often.

*

Jim straddles Sebastian's bike backwards, hands between his legs. For all the complaining he does about getting on the thing while it's moving, he's quite fond of lounging around on it while it's stationary. He's leaning forward, watching as Sebastian slides in beneath his car. And oh, what a picture he makes, all smudged with grease stains, white shirt clinging to his torso. Jim's not fond of the oil and the dirt of the garage, but this, oh, this is worth it.

The old record player in the corner crackles occasionally as it plays through Sebastian's favourite record of the month, Johnny Burnette and the Rock 'n' Roll Trio. Every so often Jim hears his voice mingle with the crackly one of Johnny Burnette, who he has grown, over his past few visits, rather sick of. Still, he likes watching Sebastian work, and he likes when he catches the soft, low warmth of his voice singing along.

“I'm bored,” Jim complains eventually, and Sebastian, as always, reappears from beneath the car and runs a stained hand over his hair.

“Yeah, and whatcha want me to do about it?”

Jim grins and wiggles his shoulders, leaning forward invitingly. His tongue flicks out over his lips and he bites into the lower one, pretending to consider that question. Even as he puts on this display, Sebastian is rising, reaching for the old rag to rub oil from his hands.

“If it's too much of a challenge for you...” Jim starts to shift from the bike, but Sebastian is on him in seconds, arms caging him in. His mouth is warm and firm against Jim's, leaving no room for doubt in his abilities. Jim grins into the kiss, indulges it briefly, before nipping at Sebastian's lip as he pulls away.

“Don't touch me when you're all dirty.”

“Dirty, am I?”

“Filthy,” Jim murmurs, playing along, glancing at Sebastian from beneath girlish eyelashes. Sebastian's slides his hands up Jim's thighs and the smaller boy squeaks out his protest like an angry bird. “Sebastian! I'm serious.”

“No, you're Jim.”

Sebastian's laughter comes easy as he curls an arm around Jim's back and pulls him from the bike, pulls him flush against his dirtied torso. Jim hits and scratches at him, but Sebastian pays him no mind, twirling them and swaying his hips against Jim's in rhythm to the music. After a few moments he wins out over Jim's anger, and it dissolves into laughter as he allows Sebastian to lead him into a dance. Real, genuine laughter; the kind that only Sebastian can ever coax from him.

_Get along, creepy little woman. Get along, well be on your way._

_With a heave and a ho. Well, I just couldn't let her go._

*

He feels anger bubbling up inside him, familiar and searing. What is unfamiliar is the vague sense of concern he can feel alongside it, the beginnings of worry, as if he actually cares, and that takes him violently by surprise; both scares and irritates him. He doesn't focus on that now. He has other things to worry about. Like the current state of Sebastian.

“What happened to you?” Jim says, and he tries so hard to keep his tone indifferent, bored; to conceal any of the dregs of emotion he is currently experiencing.

“Get in.”

For once, Jim does as he's told without question or argument.

It's hurting him to drive. Jim can tell from the way his jaw is clenched, his teeth pressed tight together; can tell from the sighs and hisses each time he moves; can tell from the awkward, uncomfortable position he sits in. Sebastian takes them to the riverbed, the far end, further than any of the races go. He cuts the engine and reclines with a sigh.

“It was-”

“I know who it was. I want to know what happened.”

“They hit me with something from behind. Around the head. Got me when I was down.”

Jim mutters darkly in Irish as he examines Sebastian, and Seb takes comfort from the sound, even if he doesn't know what the words mean. He's lucky, Jim tells him, that he hasn't broken a rib. The worst of the damage is a sprained wrist, but that will heal itself in time.

“He wants to race. This was his way of askin'.”

“And you're gonna do it.” That's a statement, not a question, because Jim knows Sebastian, knows he is too stubborn to turn down a challenge, particularly to Powers.

Sebastian takes a deep drag of his cigarette, blows smoke out the window.

“And I'm gonna win.”

*

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Home.”

“Sometimes, I guess. A bit.”

“What was Ireland like?”

“Cold. Wet. Grey. Miserable.”

“It doesn't sound very nice.”

“It's as nice as anywhere else, I suppose.”

“And you wanna go back?”

“I don't know.”

“You said you miss it.”

“I miss the weather. I miss the language. I miss knowing the streets by heart; knowing all the back alleys and secret hiding spots.”

“Do you miss the people?”

“Not particularly.”

“What about your friends?”

“Didn't have any.”

“Did you have any other family?”

“None living, or that spoke to us.”

“Hmm. Do you like it here?”

“I suppose it's as good as anywhere.”

“Do you wanna stay?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, if you don't wanna go home, and you don't wanna stay, where do you wanna go?”

“I wanted to go to London, before we moved.”

“London?”

“In England.”

“I know where London is.”

“A lot of the great writers moved there.”

“Or Paris.”

“Irish writers. You're thinking American.”

“Right. Fitzgerald.”

“Hemingway.”

“Stein. 'America is my country, and Paris is my hometown.'”

“I like when you remember things like that.”

“Least I remember something.”

“Evidence there's a brain in there somewhere.”

“Hey! … I'd like to go to Paris, I think.”

“I quite like the sound of Italy.”

“And then London?”

“And then London.”

“Why London?”

“Because in London anything is possible.”

*

_I got wise_

*

“Powers is dead.”

Jim is wearing new jeans. Dark, tight ones. Any other time they would stir appreciation from Sebastian, would prompt him to cup Jim's ass and pull him close, run his hands over him. Today he just about acknowledges the difference, still cold with shock, feeling it settled in his stomach like lead. He doesn't look up, keeps his eyes trained on Jim's feet.

“I know,” comes Jim's reply, with the air of someone agreeing that yes, it is rather a nice day today, isn't it? The lack of surprise causes Sebastian to glance up, and he's further surprised at the rest of Jim's appearance.

It's not much different from the evening in Sebastian's room, except that then it had been pretend, had been Jim in clothes that were far too big for him, had been a kid's game of dress up. Now the white shirt he's wearing hugs his small frame, displays his skinniness without making him look small in the way his sweaters had, shows off his body in the same manner as his jeans. The leather jacket is the same, is a proper fit, is not sliding off of his shoulders or hiding his hands within too long sleeves. His hair is styled to perfection, better than Sebastian had managed to do it. He smiles down at Seb; a dark, wicked little curl at the corner of his lips.

“Close your mouth, darling.” Jim taps beneath Sebastian's chin, and he realises his jaw has gone slack. “Atta boy.”

Jim steps over him, if only to draw attention to the way his jeans hug his backside when he moves. He settles on Sebastian's other side, in the top corner of the bleachers, the only place they ever meet on the school grounds.

“His wheel came off. During the race.”

“Mmm.” Jim hums in acknowledgement, but doesn't look particularly interested.

“He was really burnin' rubber, goin' too fast, couldn't get it under control in time. Completely totaled the machine. He died in the ambulance, just like James Dean.”

“Tragic,” says Jim, sounding somewhat delighted.

Sebastian feels a flare of anger.

“That could have been me!”

Jim raises an eyebrow at the outburst, purses his lips in a silent show of irritation.

“No, it couldn't.”

“It could, just as easily. I was goin' even faster than him. If my wheel-”

“You look after your car. Your wheels were secure.”

Jim has pulled a comb from his jacket and is examining it absently, twirling it between his fingers. There's something about his expression that makes Sebastian uncomfortable, that makes his stomach twist in tight, hard knots. Jim looks satisfied. Jim looks... _smug_.

“Jim, you didn't-”

“Ohhh, good. Very good. Didn't think you were quite that smart, but you always do take me by surprise.”

“Jim!”

“I picked up a few things, y'know. Watchin' you in the garage all the time.”

“Jim, he's dead.”

“Yes.” Jim looks up at Sebastian, and any trace of emotion is now gone from his face. His expression is flat, his eyes dark and empty, and they remind Sebastian of the black holes Jim once described to him. He's never seen Jim look like this. It's unsettling, no, it's more than that, it's terrifying.

“You can't- Shit, Jim, I-”

“You what, Moran?”

“He's _dead_.”

Suddenly Jim is on his feet, body quivering, and the anger that is always brewing inside of him is bursting out.

“Yes! And you're lucky you're _not_. You're lucky that when they were teaming up on you, attacking you while you were down, outnumbered and caught off guard, that they didn't break your ribs, or your neck, or fracture your _skull_. They could have killed you, Sebastian, and they could have killed me before that. So I got there first, and I'm glad I did. I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad that there's one less person I have to try and avoid for my physical safety, because I deal with that enough as it is.”

Those are the right words, just as Jim knew they would be. They hit something in Sebastian, set off that instinct he has to protect, not himself, no, but Jim, only Jim, always Jim. The fear and the distress in his face vanishes, and his expression shifts into something harder, something more like Jim's; but not quite as empty. The cold inside him is numbing, is rushing through him like calm relief.

“You won't get caught?”

“They're taking it as an accident. Happens often enough. I thought it through. I made sure.”

The numb sensation is starting to tingle, is starting to heat and rise, like a thrill, like admiration, like excitement.

“You're brilliant.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“You look incredible.”

“I said: something I don't know.”

Sebastian laughs, and there's a slight manic edge to it, but that's alright; that's excusable, all things considered.

“He's dead.”

“Yes.”

“Gone.”

“Forever.”

“Wow. Crazy.”

“Mm, yes, it's got me all worked up just thinking about it.”

“...Really?”

Jim smirks, takes Sebastian's wrist and moves it toward his lap, guides his hand over the rise of his erection and grinds up against his palm. Sebastian feels something flare inside him, and he knows this can't be normal, he knows that there's something wrong and twisted about this whole situation, but it just makes it feel all the more deviously _right_.

“Jesus.”

"Mm, no, just Jim." 

Jim giggles, and Sebastian can't help but laugh along with him, breathless, disbelieving. 

“How about we head back to your car and you can see how incredible I look out of these, hm?” Jim licks his lips, rises to his feet and hops down to the bench beneath them, prowling along it like a cat. “Come along.”

And Sebastian does.

Just as Jim knew he would.

Just as he always does.

*

_You're the devil in disguise._

 


End file.
